Counting the Days
by agoodtuckering
Summary: It's been eight months. Malcolm Tucker is out of prison and finally back home. It's time to pick up the pieces and make something of what's left. Sam's there for him.
1. Chapter 1

Malcolm was nursing a cup of tea when there came a knock at his door. It was well past eight o'clock — far too late to be his sister and his nieces.

Four days ago, he had been released from prison. Eight months of absolute, pure hell. He was slowly adjusting to "civilian life" again. It would just take some time. Months and months of living on a schedule would do that to you. But it felt like fucking heaven to be home again. He'd just eaten his dinner, was watching a bit of news on the telly. It felt… glorious, to say the least.

At the sound of a knock at his door, he set aside his tea and rose to his feet. The familiar face at the other side of his door came as a right, proper surprise. Sam Cassidy was standing on his stoop, a hopeful expression on her face.

"Sam? What the fuck're you doing here?" he asked in that natural, charming way of his.

They had kept in touch, of course. She'd gotten another job, but she kept in touch with Malcolm. She even came to visit him in jail a handful of times. But seeing her there, on his stoop, was an altogether beautiful sight. He'd fucking missed her.

She laughed. She outright laughed at him. Brushing him aside gently, she came into his flat and closed the door behind her, if only to be polite. "I wanted you to make sure you were okay," she said quietly.

His small flat was immaculate, just as he'd always kept it. His sister must have come by and cleaned _quite a bit_ before he was released. To her knowledge, his lovely sister — Janet — had been the one to keep his flat in an alright shape while he was away, anyway.

A look of confusion crossed his features, eyes following her into the foyer as she stood there. "That's fine and all," he said slowly, "but what're you doing here at half past eight in the evening? Bit late, isn't it? London isn't exactly a safe place, pet."

She came over to him, gently touching his chest. "I was nervous," she told him quietly.

This wasn't the Sam he knew. _What had changed?_

Before he could ask, she continued to speak. "I actually wanted to come by for dinner," she told him, brows drawn together. "Have you eaten?"

What a fucking whirlwind. He ran a hand through his grayer, longer hair and cast a look down in her direction. A gentle look, something that he'd only ever reserved for her and family.

"I have," he replied. "I've eaten. What're you so nervous about, you daft bint? It's just _me._ I'm not some hardened criminal now because I spent some time in prison…"

Their gazes connected and suddenly there was fire crackling, electricity between them. The old Malcolm was still there. Maybe he'd gotten some of his old self back, since he'd been in prison. Maybe he'd finally gotten the break from politics that he deserved — however fucking terrible the reasons had been. He was _home_ now.

She leaned in closer, two hands finding his chest and brushing along the fleece jumper he wore. It made his eyebrows draw together, his cheeks flush, and his lips part — as if he wanted to say something but he couldn't find the words. "For two-hundred and forty-three days I've thought about this," she whispered quietly, reaching up to lay her lips on his.

It was a long, slow kiss. Something about the way she'd said the days — counted them out, even — caught him somewhere deep, somewhere personal.

For so long, for so many _years,_ he'd loved this woman. She felt so out of his realm. So out of his depth. He couldn't believe this was happening.

His lips began to return the kiss, eyes falling shut, even as his brows flew upwards in utter, complete disbelief. "Sam—" Her name was a tender whisper, gentler than she'd ever heard from his lips. The delicacy behind it almost broke her heart. Two masculine, pale hands rose to cup her cheeks, to draw her closer as he drank her in, warm lips parting for her kiss.

She backed him up to the wall, relishing in the way he so easily gave in for her. Malcolm Tucker was all brimstone and fire and control — and yet he was submitting to her as readily and effortlessly as could be. Never in her wildest dreams had she ever thought it could be this way.

That could only mean one thing — that he yearned and ached for this as _deeply_ as she also did. That they wanted each other. That they craved one another beyond words. That he'd probably, at least even once, thought about this during his long months in jail.

It took her days to come here. Days to find her courage. Days to tell herself that she _had_ to tell him how much she loved him. _Days._

 _You're kissing your old boss, you're kissing your old boss, you're kissing your old boss._ The words seemed to ring through her mind. _And he's kissing you back. He's kissing you back. Hands, lips, teeth, tongue. Oh, god. He's kissing you back._

As if on cue, his hands were suddenly all over her and her only response was to moan. She'd only ever dreamt of feeling those rough fingers along her warm skin in that way. Cupping her, holding her, _cradling her._

He had protected her from beginning to end. From the day she began working for him, to the day she'd lost her grandmother, the day he was fired, the day he fucked over Nicola Murray. Every day. Every. Single. Day.

Throughout all of it — _as reckless as he was at times, stupidly so_ — he still protected her. It was how he told her that he loved her.

And now it was his turn to moan, as she rubbed their bodies together and wound her arms about his frail shoulders — and really, it worried her, how much weight he'd lost in prison. He was always quite lithe, and he always had been, but he was far older-looking now. Frailer. Skinnier. So much thinner. And she hated it with every fiber of her being.

Something changed in that moment. She felt it, but couldn't explain it.

"Sam—" It was a groan against her lips, and she was afraid to draw away for fear of breaking the spell. All she could do was press her body to his and mumble, "Don't ask me to stop, please. I've wanted you for years. Even if it's just this once, let me have you. I know you want this, too. Just wanna make you feel good, let you feel alive again."

There was a pause as he drew away, despite being wedged between her and the wall. "Sam," he urged her, "stop." It was a plea. Something about it yanked her back to the present and she pulled away as if she'd been stuck by fire.

"Just stop," he said weakly. And for a moment, he sagged against the wall in his hallway. The spark of his old self that she'd seen earlier was seemingly gone now, replaced by a much older, wearier look and a trembling hand as it ran across his aged features. But the desire _was_ there, crackling in the air between them like a static electricity. Her eyes fell briefly to the unmistakable bulge in his denim trousers, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

 _He wanted her._

What was the problem?

She just stood there, awaiting some sort of response. Something. _Anything._

"We shouldn't do this," he began slowly, eyes bravely rising to her features after a few soft breaths. "We shouldn't. We could just pretend this never happened. Blame it on exhaustion, yeah? Blame it on us just being… happy I'm home. Happy I'm out of fucking prison, right? Go home, Sam. It's late."

After the long months without him, she nearly shattered on the spot. What was his fucking problem? Why was he being this way? They'd known one another for over ten years. And throughout it all, they've loved one another. Sod him for denying it.

Her eyes grew hot and teary, a look of utter disbelief passing over her features. He _almost_ reached out for her but eventually thought better of it.

"I don't want to blame this on being tired, Malcolm," she said as she found her voice, despite the lump in her throat. "I don't want to leave. The last place I want to be is home, all alone. I want to be here. I want to be where you are."

The crease in his brow was obvious. It stung. She'd hurt him. Even the Mighty Malcolm Tucker had his soft spots. And apparently all of them involved her.

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," he told her. "I'm sorry I kissed you back. Now go home. I'm sorry." There was something in his eyes. She couldn't quite put her finger on it but it was dark and she guessed it was self-loathing. Was he angry with himself? Was he feeling like he wasn't _good enough_ for a lass like her? Well, she had a thing or two to say about _that._

"What did I do?" she asked him, afraid to move away and afraid to leave. "Do you feel like you aren't enough? Is this because you were in prison? Is this because… Oh, I don't fucking know. Malcolm, just talk to me."

He opened the door. "Fucking Christ," he mumbled. _"Leave."_

Never once in their many long years had Malcolm _ever_ taken that tone with her. He spat venom at everyone else. He was volcanic and torrential with _everyone else,_ but never with her. And in that moment, it occurred to her — he really might not have wanted this.

 _Maybe he didn't want her anymore._ Not like he used to, anyway.

Her lower lip began to wobble. But Sam — oh, strong little Samantha — she left with her head held high, even if her dignity was in tatters. She didn't look back at him once, didn't even flinch as he slammed his flat door in her wake.

He simply stood there, back against his closed door, and allowed himself a long, low groan. What the _fuck_ just happened between them? He'd dreamt of kissing her for years. But when it finally happened, _something_ inside of him shattered. He was _terrified_ of disappointing her. _Terrified_ that she would see him for the weary old man that he'd become.

He _wouldn't_ be able to fix this, and he _certainly_ wouldn't be able to explain his feelings to her. And what's more — he had a feeling she wouldn't be coming back.


	2. Chapter 2

For Sam, her night passed at a painfully dull pace. She left Malcolm's small, cozy flat in quite a state and nearly ran to get a cab and head home. It was quiet — _too quiet_ — and she sat with her phone on her queen-size mattress in front of her for what felt like ages, the television droning quietly in the background.

It was Hell. Pure, honest Hell. She wanted nothing more than to go back in time and rewind the events of the night. She thought, maybe, by telling him how she felt it would soothe his nerves. Apparently that wasn't the case.

He kissed her back — _fervidly._ What made him stop? What made him _want_ to stop?

 _What had she done wrong?_

And why oh why couldn't she get the way his hands had felt out of her fucking head? The way his lips felt on hers? The way he'd moaned as she rolled her hips against his? The desire behind his responses? The perfection of it all? She was _fucked._

When no text messages or no calls came through, she eventually fell asleep atop her duvet and just barely managed to snag the telly remote to turn off whatever horrible news broadcast was buzzing away on the too-small-for-her-liking flat-screen.

For so long, she'd thought about this night. She'd thought about seeing him again, wondering how long his hair would be or if he let his scruff go with a laziness that she'd rarely ever seen from him. She wondered how his arms would feel around her again. How it would _be._

But the reality of it was too terrible for words. He was too thin, too gaunt, still wearing that defeated look that he had been the day they'd parted, excluding the in-between visits in prison. She wanted to be his shelter from the storm — any storm, no matter how terrible it might be.

In the morning, she did only thing before readying herself for work. She sent Malcolm a text:

 ** _I'm sorry._**

 ** _S x_**

There never came a reply, which, if anything, only made her heart sink all the more. Not that she was expecting one, but a response of any kind — even a _"fuck off"_ — would have been nice. Just to know that he was alright. She was _worried._

She left early in the morning for her entirely too normal (even a bit boring) secretarial job, taking lunch a bit later than normal and walking to her favorite coffeehouse for a light, sweet cuppa and a scone and a little something for her new boss as well. Just to be nice. The man's wife was always baking her chocolate chip biscuits and various other treats. It was the least she could do.

It was when she was leaving that night that something startled her. She found Malcolm out on the stoop, as if he'd been waiting and wondering if he could knock on the office's door. Had her brother given him her work address?

"Malcolm—" She froze, fingers hovering over her coat lapels where she'd been fixing them. "What the fuck are you doing here?" Good god, that man's mouth had rubbed off on her over the years. Among other things — _like his fiery temper._

"I'm sorry, alright?" It was a soft response. Soft and muttered in that Scottish brogue of his, a gentle lilt, something that seemed to have melted her.

She paused before descending the steps onto the cold London street, a hand firmly holding the strap of her purse. "What are you sorry for, exactly? You don't have a single thing to apologize for."

There was something clipped and cold in her tone, a result of hours upon hours of worry and a terrible, sleepless night. His fault, really. _Well,_ and hers.

He wasn't good at this. She could tell. He never had been, though. And standing there, on the street, dressed in a gray suit without a tie, she felt oddly out of place beside him. Casual Malcolm was not something she was used to. Malcolm in a gray prison outfit wasn't… particularly pleasant, either. But this — this was _dangerous_ because her eyes were lingering and she couldn't seem to be able to help herself.

"I'm sorry about last night," he suddenly said on a windy gust of breath. "We shouldn't… I shouldn't… You know… Ah, fuck everything. I can't seem to say what's on my mind."

For a fleeting moment, they met each other's gazes. He looked as if he may kiss her, she looked as if she may ask him to, but her phone began to ring and she cast a quick glance down towards it.

 _Fuck._

 _Her boss._

"I can't do this right now," she told Malcolm, something in her heart constricted by the realization that they might _never_ do this.

She let her phone go into voicemail, prolonging the agony of whatever was to come on a message. Or perhaps an email. Then she glimpsed Malcolm's way and said, "Whatever you came here to say, maybe… it's just best if you don't. You were right. We should have just pretended last night never happened. We could blame it on exhaustion, never talk about it again." She took a small step closer, awkwardly patting his chest and adding, "But it's a shame, you know. I meant every word that I said to you. I'm just sorry it wasn't enough."

 _I'm sorry I wasn't enough._

The words hung in the air like smoke, eventually dissipating as she turned to go. Her dignity was in tatters and she _didn't_ want him to say one more word about it. Not unless he planned to sweep her off her feet and kiss her. Maybe drag her home and make love to her like he should have last night.

But no — instead, he just let her walk away. That was the problem with Malcolm, wasn't it? He let everyone just _walk away._ That's what ended his marriage all those years ago. He let her just walk away.

And she kept walking.


	3. Chapter 3

The Great Malcolm Tucker was back in the limelight again, back where he enjoyed being. His column was a success. Many a politician were caught in the line of fire, including one Dan Miller who eventually decided to step down from his position as Future Prime Minister. Too much press could be _very_ bad, which Miller had soon learned.

The only man who was barely mentioned, in any way, was Ollie Reeder. Call it stupidity, but Malcolm felt some sort of warmth for the younger man. They'd been through so much together. When Dan Miller left, Ollie found a shred of loyalty and left as well, with the majority of his dignity intact. He never became the raging, pitiful alcoholic that Malcolm told him he would. No, he left well before then. And now he had a far better job, working as a tech-savy PA of sorts to a local attorney, learning as much as he can in the process.

During those eight months in prison, Ollie even came to visit him a few times. Shocking, that. But Malcolm was thankful for the visits, even as awkward as they were.

But the job...

Political _vengeance._

Diplomatic, bureaucratic _assassination._

That's all that this ever was. Malcolm Tucker was a man of his word — _for the most part, these days_ — and he'd told everyone they weren't through with him yet the day he'd been found guilty in front of the eyes of his peers, his lawyer, a jury, and a fat, pompous judge.

He was back in the political limelight, back in the news again, back in everyone's lives again in the worst of ways.

Months passed since he'd seen Sam, and they were fucking miserable and sad. He kept himself busy, though, with _work._ No, correction. He was busy destroying other people's lives. Those who had destroyed _him_ , anyway. And he was finally finding himself able to move on, slowly but surely.

One day, as he was standing outside Number 10 from a rather important visit, surrounded by hacks upon hacks, he heard something terrible. A journalist thrust his recorder in Malcolm's direction and said, "Mr. Tucker, do you have anything to say about your old PA's accusations, of being violated by a journalist? What do you have to say about Sam Cassidy claiming such a thing? Do you believe her? Do you still see her, on occasion, or was it just a professional relationship between you two?"

It felt like someone had punched him right in the gut. He stared, shocked, his jaw hanging slack. He couldn't even speak. Violated? Molested? Was she raped? Where the fuck was this so-called boyfriend of hers when she needed him most?

"I'm sorry," he says, pushing away from the hoard of hacks and making for the street. There was an uproar behind him, following after him. All he heard was a chorus of loud, "Mr. Tucker's" as he went, but couldn't give two shites.

He all but ran to hail a cab, rushing half into the street when he got to one. "Blimey," the driver said, stopping and unlocking the door for Malcolm. "In a rush, sir? Where to?"

Malcolm, utterly unphased, rambled off the address to him. It felt like an eternity before he arrived at her flat. The lights were off, from what he could see outside, and suddenly it was as if his throat was closing up.

Was she okay? Was she hurt? Did the bastard _really_ rape her? Was it all a lie, everything the journalist said? What was the truth?

In the moment, he'd never felt such a rush of love and _need_ in his life. She was certainly the one. She was the love of his life. The one he'd regret losing for the rest of his life. The one he was _meant_ to love. The one he should have told so, so long ago.

Sod everything. _He_ didn't matter right now. _She_ did.

He flew from the cab after tossing quid at the driver, then ran across the cobblestone sidewalk to where her door was. He knocked furiously, chest heaving from all the running. He loosened his tie, eyebrows rising in anticipation.

Sam answered the door rather quickly, much to his own surprise. And her expression was one of pure shock, especially at his dishevelled state. "Malcolm?" She was unsure, surprised. Bewildered, really.

He placed a hand on the door, not-so-subtly looking her over to make sure she was alright. "Are you okay, Sam? Please tell me you are..."

Then it hit her. He must have heard. _Of course he must have._ The man was surrounded by bloodthirsty hacks. "I'm fine," she said slowly, still too hesitant to step aside and let him in.

"Don't lie to me, please," he said hurriedly. A petite hand rose, her eyebrows drawn together. Then she said, "Look, Malc. I'm not sure what you heard but I really _am_ okay. I was at a party last week and this man made a grab for my arse. A punched him. He might've gotten a bit grabby. It's alright. He _might_ be singing Soprano for the rest of his life, though, and he'll be broke by the time I'm finished with him in court. I won't lie about that. But I'm okay. He's the one who got hurt, not me."

He froze, all-too-embarrassed about his initial reaction.

"Jesus Christ," he said slowly, a hand rubbing at his temple. Whilst his eyes were on the cement ground, on the step into her flat, he felt a hand gently grasp his shoulder. Her fingers were warm, gentle, tender. She caught his attention, saying, "I'm okay, Malcolm. _I promise."_

His eyes rose again, bravely meeting hers. His were teary, hers were filled with concern and confusion. The words were out of his lips before he even attempted to stop them. "Fuck, I love you," he blurted out. "I love you so much, Sam. Even if it doesn't matter. You're all I ever fucking think about. Do you even fucking _understand?_ I thought I was gonna have to kill some bastard. I was… _terrified."_

The admission left her stunned, fingers losing their grip on his shoulder. Why did it matter so much? Why did _she_ matter so much? There was a fire in his eyes that she hadn't seen in so, so long. Since before the Goolding Inquiry. Since before he'd left Number 10. Since aeons ago.

 _She saw the old Malcolm again, in those few seconds._

That is, before his lips were on hers. He needed it. He just needed this one last kiss and then maybe he could leave, put this behind him, and be happy for her. He needed to feel her close just this one last time, even if it only lasted for a few seconds.

 _One last time._

What was supposed to end so quickly turned into a battle for dominance over a kiss. She was taller than him this way, still standing on the step into her flat whilst he was on the ground level. She seized the opportunity to wind her arms about his lithe shoulders, to pull him closer and press their torsos together, even as she protested.

"Malcolm, we shouldn't—" The words were cut short by another, hungrier kiss. Her knees gave way but he was there, and he'd always be there, to catch her. He'd never been so sure of _anything_ in his life. He was _hers._

He lifted her into his arms with an ease that thoroughly shocked her. It shocked them both. He slipped into the flat, shutting the door behind them. She was eager, needy, and winding her thighs around his narrow hips.

It was there — _that powerful chemistry, that affection, that love, that lust._ She didn't know what to do with it all. She smiled against his lips, absolutely stumbling over her words. "What are we doing, Malcolm? What are we fucking doing?"

He fell to the sofa with her, collapsing into her and leaning up on his forearm to keep from crushing her with his weight, as slight as it was. Their bodies pressed together and it stole her breath away. And his.

"I should've had you on my desk years ago. _Why didn't I?_ What stopped me?"

His response took her breath away. She yanked at his tie, loosening it in the process and beginning to untie it. "I bought this tie for you, years ago," she mumbled, her teeth tugging at his lower lip without any care or mercy. Once he was rid of it, she heard him reply back, "I know you did."

Furious. That's what their hands were. And his were everywhere. He pushed her blouse up higher, needing to feel warm skin against his rough fingers.

"I'm in a fucking relationship," she finally mumbled. And really, she probably should have said the words _minutes_ ago when this all began. He laughed, chuckled almost, against her lips and murmured in reply. "I don't fucking care, sweetheart. Might've cared months ago but I don't now. You wouldn't be undressing me right now if you cared about _him_ , anyway. So why should I?"

She gave him a good shove but her lips were attacking his again afterward. Then she dared to reply. "Because he's a good guy, you know. He's nice. Caring. He's there for me when I need him to be. Shaun's nothing like you, you dimwitted fucktwat."

He laughed. It was a _real_ sound. He threw his head back and laughed. "Nice one," he replied. "You're sounding more and more like me every day. Doesn't that seem alarming to you?"

She shoved him again. This time, though, they were both caught off-guard as he lost his balance above her. He went falling to the plush, carpeted floor and she landed on top of him there. It knocked the wind right out of his lungs and a flurry of colorful Scotch curses followed, along with a gasp, to feel her pelvis against his.

"You're dangerous, lass," he grumbled to her, wincing and moving the hardcover book he'd landed on. He tossed it aside, onto the sofa, and sighed. He felt all reason go right out of the cracked window in that tiny living room, however, when she reached lower and cupped what was making itself rather known between his thighs — _a hard cock._

"Sam—" He couldn't even speak. The name came rushing past his lips in a whoosh of breath, neck arching for a moment as she pressed her lips to his jugular. As if he completely, utterly crumbled for her in that exact moment.

"Why now?" she asked, shocked with herself and shocked with everything that was happening between them. "Why we are doing this now, and not months ago? Why didn't…" She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. Unable to speak her mind. Unable to swallow the lump in her throat.

He cupped her cheek as she made quick work of unclasping his belt buckle, deft fingers popping his trouser buttons open afterward. "Because… Because it just took me some time to realize what was really important," he told her.

There was a pause, her expression softening as she watched him for a moment.

"And what's that, hm? What's really important to you? I've loved you for so long," she mumbled quietly. "I worked for you for a decade, Malcolm, and I loved you for every second of it. It was an accident. I just started _feeling that way_ one day and I couldn't stop it once it began."

She stilled, her hands touching his jaw and holding him close for a moment. Out it came, like a broken dam, and once it started it couldn't be stopped. "I love you," he said hurriedly. "I love you and it hurts. It wears away at me every day to be without you. I've missed you since the day I was booked and sent to prison. I thought maybe I was doing the right thing, because you deserve better, by being with someone else and not me, but I don't fucking care anymore. _I want you."_

Their clothes were gone in minutes. They undressed one another, both no longer really caring about the consequences of their actions. They just wanted — no, _needed_ one another.

He was so hard, achingly hard, and she was so ready for him. It felt like heaven to slip inside of her for that first time, to bury himself to the hilt, to feel her nails rake down his back.

Everything inside of him screamed how they should have done this so long ago. Every fiber of his being belonged to her. Every thought, every cell, every molecule. Why hadn't he told her years ago?

She rode him hard and fast, with urgency and impatience. That's what waiting for nearly a decade did to someone. That's what it felt like. It felt like they couldn't get enough of one another, no matter how hard they tried.

She grasped his shoulders, the pillow by his head on the carpeted floor. His hands trailed along her spine, down to the base of it, grappled for her backside. He gently caressed everything he could possibly reach, palming at her breasts and teasing her rosy-pink nipples, trying to find what drove her utterly insane and propelled her over the edge.

He needed to _feel_ her. Needed to touch her everywhere. He was so tactile, as she soon discovered. And oh, she adored it. She didn't care what he touched, though, truthfully. As long as he was the one doing it, it didn't matter. She'd yearned for those hands to map out her body for so long.

Their highs were intense. They found their peak together, climaxing in one another's arms and clinging to what little sanity remained. This evening had been far too surreal to even begin to explain, not that she wanted to think it over.

And when it was all over, when they were lying spent in one another's arms on the sofa — where they'd relocated to, sometime during the lovemaking — he fell asleep beneath her. He dozed off, finally at peace and utterly _at home_ in her arms.

She was in awe of it all. Awestruck by how comfortable he was with her, by the ease he suddenly felt with her. By the snug, cozy arms that were wound around her. The cheek that was resting atop her head. The soft snores. Everything _him._

But what would she do about Shaun, her _boyfriend?_ She felt dirty, really. She was a loyal woman. She always had been. Look what Malcolm had made her do... Not that the fault lie entirely with him, mind. She knew that. And the worst part? She didn't regret a single thing about it.

She fell asleep that night, lost in his arms, and curled up at his side. _Nothing else mattered._


	4. Chapter 4

The Great Malcolm Tucker was back in the limelight again, back where he enjoyed being. His column was a success. Many a politician were caught in the line of fire, including one Dan Miller who eventually decided to step down from his position as Future Prime Minister. Too much press could be _very_ bad, which Miller had soon learned.

The only man who was barely mentioned, in any way, was Ollie Reeder. Call it stupidity, but Malcolm felt some sort of warmth for the younger man. They'd been through so much together. When Dan Miller left, Ollie found a shred of loyalty and left as well, with the majority of his dignity intact. He never became the raging, pitiful alcoholic that Malcolm told him he would. No, he left well before then. And now he had a far better job, working as a tech-savy PA of sorts to a local attorney, learning as much as he can in the process.

During those eight months in prison, Ollie even came to visit him a few times. Shocking, that. But Malcolm was thankful for the visits, even as awkward as they were.

But the job...

Political _vengeance._

Diplomatic, bureaucratic _assassination._

That's all that this ever was. Malcolm Tucker was a man of his word — _for the most part, these days_ — and he'd told everyone they weren't through with him yet the day he'd been found guilty in front of the eyes of his peers, his lawyer, a jury, and a fat, pompous judge.

He was back in the political limelight, back in the news again, back in everyone's lives again in the worst of ways.

Months passed since he'd seen Sam, and they were fucking miserable and sad. He kept himself busy, though, with _work._ No, correction. He was busy destroying other people's lives. Those who had destroyed _him_ , anyway. And he was finally finding himself able to move on, slowly but surely.

One day, as he was standing outside Number 10 from a rather important visit, surrounded by hacks upon hacks, he heard something terrible. A journalist thrust his recorder in Malcolm's direction and said, "Mr. Tucker, do you have anything to say about your old PA's accusations, of being violated by a journalist? What do you have to say about Sam Cassidy claiming such a thing? Do you believe her? Do you still see her, on occasion, or was it just a professional relationship between you two?"

It felt like someone had punched him right in the gut. He stared, shocked, his jaw hanging slack. He couldn't even speak. Violated? Molested? Was she raped? Where the fuck was this so-called boyfriend of hers when she needed him most?

"I'm sorry," he says, pushing away from the hoard of hacks and making for the street. There was an uproar behind him, following after him. All he heard was a chorus of loud, "Mr. Tucker's" as he went, but couldn't give two shites.

He all but ran to hail a cab, rushing half into the street when he got to one. "Blimey," the driver said, stopping and unlocking the door for Malcolm. "In a rush, sir? Where to?"

Malcolm, utterly unphased, rambled off the address to him. It felt like an eternity before he arrived at her flat. The lights were off, from what he could see outside, and suddenly it was as if his throat was closing up.

Was she okay? Was she hurt? Did the bastard _really_ rape her? Was it all a lie, everything the journalist said? What was the truth?

In the moment, he'd never felt such a rush of love and _need_ in his life. She was certainly the one. She was the love of his life. The one he'd regret losing for the rest of his life. The one he was _meant_ to love. The one he should have told so, so long ago.

Sod everything. _He_ didn't matter right now. _She_ did.

He flew from the cab after tossing quid at the driver, then ran across the cobblestone sidewalk to where her door was. He knocked furiously, chest heaving from all the running. He loosened his tie, eyebrows rising in anticipation.

Sam answered the door rather quickly, much to his own surprise. And her expression was one of pure shock, especially at his dishevelled state. "Malcolm?" She was unsure, surprised. Bewildered, really.

He placed a hand on the door, not-so-subtly looking her over to make sure she was alright. "Are you okay, Sam? Please tell me you are..."

Then it hit her. He must have heard. _Of course he must have._ The man was surrounded by bloodthirsty hacks. "I'm fine," she said slowly, still too hesitant to step aside and let him in.

"Don't lie to me, please," he said hurriedly. A petite hand rose, her eyebrows drawn together. Then she said, "Look, Malc. I'm not sure what you heard but I really _am_ okay. I was at a party last week and this man made a grab for my arse. A punched him. He might've gotten a bit grabby. It's alright. He _might_ be singing Soprano for the rest of his life, though, and he'll be broke by the time I'm finished with him in court. I won't lie about that. But I'm okay. He's the one who got hurt, not me."

He froze, all-too-embarrassed about his initial reaction.

"Jesus Christ," he said slowly, a hand rubbing at his temple. Whilst his eyes were on the cement ground, on the step into her flat, he felt a hand gently grasp his shoulder. Her fingers were warm, gentle, tender. She caught his attention, saying, "I'm okay, Malcolm. _I promise."_

His eyes rose again, bravely meeting hers. His were teary, hers were filled with concern and confusion. The words were out of his lips before he even attempted to stop them. "Fuck, I love you," he blurted out. "I love you so much, Sam. Even if it doesn't matter. You're all I ever fucking think about. Do you even fucking _understand?_ I thought I was gonna have to kill some bastard. I was… _terrified."_

The admission left her stunned, fingers losing their grip on his shoulder. Why did it matter so much? Why did _she_ matter so much? There was a fire in his eyes that she hadn't seen in so, so long. Since before the Goolding Inquiry. Since before he'd left Number 10. Since aeons ago.

 _She saw the old Malcolm again, in those few seconds._

That is, before his lips were on hers. He needed it. He just needed this one last kiss and then maybe he could leave, put this behind him, and be happy for her. He needed to feel her close just this one last time, even if it only lasted for a few seconds.

 _One last time._

What was supposed to end so quickly turned into a battle for dominance over a kiss. She was taller than him this way, still standing on the step into her flat whilst he was on the ground level. She seized the opportunity to wind her arms about his lithe shoulders, to pull him closer and press their torsos together, even as she protested.

"Malcolm, we shouldn't—" The words were cut short by another, hungrier kiss. Her knees gave way but he was there, and he'd always be there, to catch her. He'd never been so sure of _anything_ in his life. He was _hers._

He lifted her into his arms with an ease that thoroughly shocked her. It shocked them both. He slipped into the flat, shutting the door behind them. She was eager, needy, and winding her thighs around his narrow hips.

It was there — _that powerful chemistry, that affection, that love, that lust._ She didn't know what to do with it all. She smiled against his lips, absolutely stumbling over her words. "What are we doing, Malcolm? What are we fucking doing?"

He fell to the sofa with her, collapsing into her and leaning up on his forearm to keep from crushing her with his weight, as slight as it was. Their bodies pressed together and it stole her breath away. And his.

"I should've had you on my desk years ago. _Why didn't I?_ What stopped me?"

His response took her breath away. She yanked at his tie, loosening it in the process and beginning to untie it. "I bought this tie for you, years ago," she mumbled, her teeth tugging at his lower lip without any care or mercy. Once he was rid of it, she heard him reply back, "I know you did."

Furious. That's what their hands were. And his were everywhere. He pushed her blouse up higher, needing to feel warm skin against his rough fingers.

"I'm in a fucking relationship," she finally mumbled. And really, she probably should have said the words _minutes_ ago when this all began. He laughed, chuckled almost, against her lips and murmured in reply. "I don't fucking care, sweetheart. Might've cared months ago but I don't now. You wouldn't be undressing me right now if you cared about _him_ , anyway. So why should I?"

She gave him a good shove but her lips were attacking his again afterward. Then she dared to reply. "Because he's a good guy, you know. He's nice. Caring. He's there for me when I need him to be. Shaun's nothing like you, you dimwitted fucktwat."

He laughed. It was a _real_ sound. He threw his head back and laughed. "Nice one," he replied. "You're sounding more and more like me every day. Doesn't that seem alarming to you?"

She shoved him again. This time, though, they were both caught off-guard as he lost his balance above her. He went falling to the plush, carpeted floor and she landed on top of him there. It knocked the wind right out of his lungs and a flurry of colorful Scotch curses followed, along with a gasp, to feel her pelvis against his.

"You're dangerous, lass," he grumbled to her, wincing and moving the hardcover book he'd landed on. He tossed it aside, onto the sofa, and sighed. He felt all reason go right out of the cracked window in that tiny living room, however, when she reached lower and cupped what was making itself rather known between his thighs — _a hard cock._

"Sam—" He couldn't even speak. The name came rushing past his lips in a whoosh of breath, neck arching for a moment as she pressed her lips to his jugular. As if he completely, utterly crumbled for her in that exact moment.

"Why now?" she asked, shocked with herself and shocked with everything that was happening between them. "Why we are doing this now, and not months ago? Why didn't…" She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. Unable to speak her mind. Unable to swallow the lump in her throat.

He cupped her cheek as she made quick work of unclasping his belt buckle, deft fingers popping his trouser buttons open afterward. "Because… Because it just took me some time to realize what was really important," he told her.

There was a pause, her expression softening as she watched him for a moment.

"And what's that, hm? What's really important to you? I've loved you for so long," she mumbled quietly. "I worked for you for a decade, Malcolm, and I loved you for every second of it. It was an accident. I just started _feeling that way_ one day and I couldn't stop it once it began."

She stilled, her hands touching his jaw and holding him close for a moment. Out it came, like a broken dam, and once it started it couldn't be stopped. "I love you," he said hurriedly. "I love you and it hurts. It wears away at me every day to be without you. I've missed you since the day I was booked and sent to prison. I thought maybe I was doing the right thing, because you deserve better, by being with someone else and not me, but I don't fucking care anymore. _I want you."_

Their clothes were gone in minutes. They undressed one another, both no longer really caring about the consequences of their actions. They just wanted — no, _needed_ one another.

He was so hard, achingly hard, and she was so ready for him. It felt like heaven to slip inside of her for that first time, to bury himself to the hilt, to feel her nails rake down his back.

Everything inside of him screamed how they should have done this so long ago. Every fiber of his being belonged to her. Every thought, every cell, every molecule. Why hadn't he told her years ago?

She rode him hard and fast, with urgency and impatience. That's what waiting for nearly a decade did to someone. That's what it felt like. It felt like they couldn't get enough of one another, no matter how hard they tried.

She grasped his shoulders, the pillow by his head on the carpeted floor. His hands trailed along her spine, down to the base of it, grappled for her backside. He gently caressed everything he could possibly reach, palming at her breasts and teasing her rosy-pink nipples, trying to find what drove her utterly insane and propelled her over the edge.

He needed to _feel_ her. Needed to touch her everywhere. He was so tactile, as she soon discovered. And oh, she adored it. She didn't care what he touched, though, truthfully. As long as he was the one doing it, it didn't matter. She'd yearned for those hands to map out her body for so long.

Their highs were intense. They found their peak together, climaxing in one another's arms and clinging to what little sanity remained. This evening had been far too surreal to even begin to explain, not that she wanted to think it over.

And when it was all over, when they were lying spent in one another's arms on the sofa — where they'd relocated to, sometime during the lovemaking — he fell asleep beneath her. He dozed off, finally at peace and utterly _at home_ in her arms.

She was in awe of it all. Awestruck by how comfortable he was with her, by the ease he suddenly felt with her. By the snug, cozy arms that were wound around her. The cheek that was resting atop her head. The soft snores. Everything _him._

But what would she do about Shaun, her _boyfriend?_ She felt dirty, really. She was a loyal woman. She always had been. Look what Malcolm had made her do... Not that the fault lie entirely with him, mind. She knew that. And the worst part? She didn't regret a single thing about it.

She fell asleep that night, lost in his arms, and curled up at his side. _Nothing else mattered._


	5. Chapter 5

p style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"When Malcolm awoke in the morning, it was to a sore back and shaky thighs. Everything emached./em Groaning slightly, he lifted his head to cast a look downward. He was, well — emnaked. /emUtterly naked. There was a blanket draped across his thighs and hips and his head was smooshed into a sofa cushion. The pillow smelled like Sam's shampoo, her perfume, emher/em. It was like torture. He breathed slowly, eyes briefly fluttering and falling shut as he told himself to relax./p  
p style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;""Good morning, sleeping beauty," he heard a voice from somewhere off in the distance, presumably the kitchen. Wait… Where was he? emNot home, /emthat's for /br /The night before came rushing back to him. He gasped softly, eyes darting towards Sam, who was standing in the doorway. She was wearing her flannel shirt from the night before and nothing else but a concerned expression. Did she expect him to leave, or was she worried about other things? Shaun, maybe?/p  
p style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"His only response was to moan sleepily, rolling onto his side and drawing the blanket up higher, all the way to his neck. With a laugh, she came over and took a seat at his side. All long, pale legs and gentle hands. She pushed a curl from his temple before asking, "Okay?"/p  
p style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"He cast his eyes up at her, suddenly feeling a bit shy. Sam was here, Sam was emtouching /emhim. She wasn't kicking him out of her flat. In fact, quite the opposite. She was playing with his soft, mussed tresses, brushing a few curls behind his ear./p  
p style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;""Did last night really happen?" he asked softly, his fingers trailing lower to land on her knee, just holding her. That was all that he needed, the bit of contact between them. He brushed a scar there on her kneecap with a tender thumb — emsomething she had gotten from falling from a bike when she had been much younger/em — and smiled softly at the memory of her regaling the tale to him ages ago./p  
p style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;""Yeah, it did," she told him, drawing her hand away and gazing down at his. It was so soothing, to feel his skin on hers, to watch him nudge himself closer. He craved that warmth and closeness just as much as she did, and always had. But then her face fell. "Malcolm, I don't know what to do."/p  
p style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"She almost recoiled from his touch then, more than likely due to guilt. It was written all across her sleepy features. He understood the feeling. He wished she wasn't in a relationship. He wasn't the cheating type, nor was he the kind of bloke who made others cheat behind their significant others' backs./p  
p style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"He sat up slowly, fishing around tiredly to find his Calvin Klein shorts. He began dressing, shucking into his dress trousers and the white button down he'd worn. He shoved his tie into his pocket, stopping for a moment to linger at her side. "You dunno what to do," he repeated softly. /p  
p style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"A silence fell between them before he eventually continued. "We slept together," he said, pointing out the obvious. "If you emreally /emloved him, would you have done that? Last night should've fucking happened a long time ago, love. I was just too fuckin' stubborn, and I'm sorry. I don't regret it, but I'm sorry about Shaun."/p  
p style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"His hands tentatively rose to cup her cheeks, bringing her eyes to his. "Listen to me, Sam. I love you, and nothin' is ever gonna change that. Nothin'. I know ye love me, too. I know ye do. You've said so enough times. You've… showed me. I know you do. Last night wasn't about lust, you know that, right? It wasn't. But I can't make this decision fer you." /p  
p style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"Malcolm Tucker had emnever /embeen an emotional man, at least not on the outside. Of course, she had seen brief glimpses to the contrary over the years. But right then, right there with her, he revealed more than he could have in the ten years they were friends./p  
p style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"Then he kissed her lips. Softly, slowly. A thumb caressed her cheek as he did so, and he whispered to her upon drawing away. "Last night I made up my mind," he told her. "I know I'm not good enough for you, but I'm not afraid anymore. All I can do is try to be the man you think of me as. 'Cause you deserve it. I'm not getting any younger and I'm sick of being lonely when what I want is emright here /emin front of me."/p  
p style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"He drew away with a soft sigh, obviously reluctant to let her go but knowing it was for the best. "I don't want to force you into anything. I can't. I'm just telling you how emI /emfeel. I would do anything for you. Even if it meant forgetting about this. Anything to make you happy, Sam. If you love Shaun, if you emdon't /em want me, we can forget last night ever happened."/p  
p style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"He rose to his full height from the sofa, a bit wobbly, his head still hazy with sleep. She saw by the look in his eye that he'd never recover from this if she asked that of him. If she wanted Shaun. emMalcolm wouldn't be okay. /emBecause she really was the love of his life, the one who kept him grounded, happy, and hopeful. The one who he wanted to protect and love for the rest of his days. The one he wanted to fucking emannoy /emtill the end of his days./p  
p style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"A few minutes later, as he came from the loo fully dressed and a bit more awake, she cast a look his way. He was heading for the door and she said over a delicate shoulder, "I'll call you later. Or maybe tomorrow."/p  
p style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"emWhy did it feel like a goodbye? As if there would be no call later?/em/p  
p style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"He left, of course, but didn't leave with a smile. He left with quite a fucking scowl, once he was out of the front door and fixing his tie. He felt miserable. He feltem hollow. /emHe felt like he knew emexactly /emwhat he was losing, and there wasn't a thing he couldn't do about it./p 


	6. Chapter 6

A few days droned and rolled on by. He counted every one of them, like he always did whenever they were apart. Malcolm was visited by Julius Nicholson, the latter's attempt to keep his rear-fucking-end out of the mud. Malcolm was ruthless, really, about the whole ordeal. Still, the slippery fuck that washed up on his doorstep one late afternoon had been close to begging and it drove Malcolm to find within himself a shred of decency. In fact, he'd tucked it away for days when he might just _need_ it for this sort of thing. Who knows.

"What do you fucking want, exactly? You asking me to put my fucking gun down, or what?"

It was a long, arduous conversation. Julius wanted to be left out of Malcolm's memoirs, whenever they were to be released, and he wanted to be let off the hook on the man's online column. A small request, he'd said. Yet it felt like a terrible fucking one. A _huge_ one.

He told Julius to fuck the fuck off, that he'd think about it and call him later in the week, that he didn't deserve his good whisky, and then he sent a text to Jamie McDonald, who had plans to visit the next day. It had, after all, been so long since they'd seen one another. But in the months since he'd been released from prison, the other Scot had made an effort to rekindle their old friendship, all Number Ten matters set aside.

As far as Malcolm could see, the younger man _missed_ their camaraderie and friendship and was contrite enough to genuinely apologize for the falling out they'd had years prior.

 _Things were beginning to look up._

There was only one thing missing — _Sam._

Later in the day, he had some flowers sent to her small, cozy flat with a note that read:

 ** _Sorry for being such a dimwitted fucktwat. I hope you're doing alright. I miss you more than words could ever really say._**

 ** _Malcolm x_**

The day passed by painfully slowly. He tidied up his flat, even cleaned up the kitchen and took his electric kettle apart to wash it. Then he put on a pot of Italian meat sauce for pasta later on in the evening. Some he'd freeze, some he'd leave in his refrigerator.

Truthfully, it still felt a little bit odd to be out of prison. To be on his own schedule. To be recovering from that over-worldly experience. And if he never mentioned some of the things that had happened to him on the inside, then that was okay too.

He was _home._ That's what mattered.

The belly rang at about two in the afternoon and he rushed off to answer it, kitchen towel still in hand from attending to the sauce on simmer on his electric stove.

"Oi, smells fucking amazing in here," Jamie said as he came inside, Malcolm's hand on the knob to hold the door for the other Scot. "Did you turn into a fucking Master Chef after you left the side og the Wrong and Dishonorable Ben Miller? Wouldn't fucking put it past you."

They both laughed, sharing a brief but friendly hug, before wandering further into his flat. Inevitably, an hour or so later, _the question_ came.

"How's Sam? You haven't even mentioned her since I got here."

Malcolm turned to cast a look the younger man's way, sat at his kitchen table with a bamboo cutting board, expensive cheese and a spicy fucking pepperoni between them. He swished his wine, glowered at the dark crimson liquid inside, and simpered for a moment before daring to answer.

"She's fine," Malcolm said quietly, as if to warn Jamie not to delve any deeper on the subject of her well-being. As if his bloody eyebrows weren't already doing the job well enough for him.

Jamie sobered. "Oh, I know that face," he replied. "What'd you do, you great cunt? Is she alright?"

 _Of course_ Jamie would fail to heed such an obvious warning. He trudged along, like he always had, the stupid Scotsman that he was. He did, however, offer Malcolm a sympathetic smile. Any ill will the latter might have held in that moment, or any sullen, disgusting curses that were about to fall from his lips, suddenly dissolved at that single look. He even softened momentarily.

Faltering for a moment, Malcolm allowed himself a sigh. Then he cast a look towards his friend. _"She's_ just fine. Don't you worry about her, mate. She'll be alright. She always is. Too strong for her own good, yeah?"

Jamie took stock of the man's expression, his mannerisms, and the way he was swishing his wine around a Bordeaux wineglass. Something expensive, like a Chateau Cantemerle red blend. It smelled fucking fantastic.

With a sigh, Jamie asked, "Are _you_ alright, mate? I hesitate to even fucking ask. 'Cause I knew what your answer'll be. Same as it always is." For a moment, they sat there together in silence. Then Malcolm chuckled. "I'm fine," he eventually said in affirmation.

If something was going on between he and Sam, Jamie knew better than to ask. He always knew the two of them belonged together, in more than a friendly sense, but the business they were in disallowed that notion. Not to mention the fact that they had an age difference. Malcolm had a complex about him, a predetermined notion that any relationship he got himself into had to be with someone he absolutely fucking despised because he knew they would stab him in the back in the end. _But it didn't always have to be that way._

For a moment, Jamie's eyes fell to the golden wedding band on the man's hand. It was Malcolm's father's — a reminder that good relationships were hard to come by and Jamie knew that much. Malc's parents had worked out, yes, but only with years of hardship and struggles. But they did it all together. Always. Jamie remembered them fondly. Good-hearted people, they were.

Jamie sighed deeply, a hand rising to rub at his weary eyes. "Look," he finally said, "I just wanna see you happy, alright? I know you two love each other. Everyone fucking knows. The Queen probably fucking knows."

Malcolm started, nearly spilling wine on the white Kiton button down he was wearing. His jaw fell slack for a moment as well before he recovered. But before he could form a quip, Jamie was speaking again.

"We've been through a lot of shite, you and I, right? I've seen your ups and downs and all-fucking-arounds and I know for a fact, despite what you might think, that you've bled yerself dry for this terrible fucking country, er… _cuntry_ is more like it… and you deserve to be happy. You deserve it, Malcolm F. Tucker. Why deny yourself?"

Malcolm chuckled, dimly aware of the sudden warmth on his clean-shaven cheeks. "Thanks for the fucking speech, Sir William Wallace. But this isn't about _me,_ right? It's about _her._ I've made up my fucking mind already. Now she has to do the same. She's with someone. She needs to decide if it's me she still wants, or him."

Jamie's expression fell. He was, if nothing else, utterly astounded. "Aye, maybe," he said in response. "But something else happened, right? I can tell. You're holding out on me."

Malcolm didn't screw around anymore. No need to. He could beat around the fucking bush until his knuckles went bruised and bloody, but Jamie knew him too well. So, instead of fibbing, he merely said, "We slept together. It was… sort of an accident. Haven't talked to her since." He took a deep breath. "Even fucking sent her flowers this morning. Don't you dare laugh."

Jamie, ever the poetic one, said, "How does one accidentally slip his cock into a lass? Like, whoops, sorry I fell on you _and_ my cock slipped in? My bad. Right. I'll send flowers to apologize. Is that how it happened, or?"

Malcolm allowed himself a deep breath. "Easy there, mate. Or I'll fucking glass you." There wasn't anything behind the threat, really. They were just words. Words and words and words. Just shite-talking between old friends.

"Dunno," Malcolm said quietly. "Some bloke smacked her arse, or grabbed it, and she decked him in the gob. Guid girl. That's our Sam. So, I heard about it from a hack who shoved a fucking recorder in me face. Wanted to shove the damn thing up his arse. I'm sure my face was quite a fucking sight. After, I went to her flat, asked her about it, and we just sort of started kissing. One thing led to another. Woke up the next morning and we said goodbye. She told me she'd call me, too, and hasn't. That's the story. What more do you fucking want?"

Jamie sipped at his wine, looking all-too-thoughtful before eventually daring to speak. "You even spent the night? Fucking fantastic. Did you two cuddle? I bet you cuddled."

The next thing Jamie knew, there was a slice of smoked salami flying at his big head. And _that_ was the end of that conversation.


	7. Chapter 7

Malcolm had his life in order. If anyone were to ask him, he would most certainly say that. He would tell them to bugger off and accept his answer at that. Accept his answer for what it was. And yet he counted the days in which there came no response from the only one he wanted.

He counted every day. It became a habit.

Finally, it came. As an email.

 ** _Malcolm,_**

 ** _I've been out of town. But thank you for the flowers. Something came up. My mother's been really sick. I had to bring her to the hospital (what an ordeal that was) and I'll eventually have her put in a retirement home. Can't take care of her myself, you know. Too much. She's wheelchair bound now these days. Bad hip and all. Why are mothers so much work?_**

 ** _But anyways, I just wanted to thank you for the flowers and see how you were doing. Call me when you're free. We should talk._**

 ** _Sam x_**

A few moments later there came another email, landing in his inbox with a loud _pop_ sound notification. He immediately reached for his laptop to see the message, his chest tightening as he read the words.

 ** _Malc,_**

 ** _For the record, I miss you too._**

 ** _S x_**

A soft sigh fell from his lips in that moment. "Do what you always do," he told himself quietly. "Bury the fucking ache and pretend it doesn't matter."

He was _too used_ to doing that. She wasn't just _some lass._ She was Samantha Cassidy and he loved her with everything that he had in him. It happened slowly, falling in love with her. He was no longer her boss, no longer held back by any kind of professional obligation to keep her safe or to keep her career from going down the fucking pipes over at Number 10. She was finally safe. She could do what she wanted. And so could he.

As long as he was back in a position of power, as far as the government was concerned. His column was a threat to anyone he'd come across in all his long years, working in the line of fire, being around politicians, sweeping up the shite and mopping up the piss.

The Dark Knight of Downing Street had a purpose again. Political Jenga is what it all felt like and perhaps he enjoyed it that way. But he was in a position to help or hurt the current government and the terror everyone felt made him feel powerful again.

His computer dinged again with another email.

 ** _Malc,_**

 ** _I love you._**

 ** _I just needed to say that. I love you and only you and it's fucking killing me._**

 ** _Please call me. Tonight._**

 ** _S x_**

His breath caught in his throat and he had to read the message a few times over, just to be sure that his old eyes weren't acting up on him tonight, before he could even react.

A trembling hand reached for his discarded cell phone, the battery freshly charged. He unplugged it, finding her contact information in his phone and hitting "call" on the screen. He listened as it rang and rang and rang. And then she answered it.

"That was fast," she said softly. "Hi, Malcolm."

Pathetically, he swallowed. "You asked me to call," he said suddenly. He didn't know what else to say. His throat felt like it was closing up. "How's your mam? She doing okay?"

She sighed softly, obviously distraught at the memories his question roused. "My mum's doing alright. Relatively speaking. I hated having to leave her. My dad's with her, though. He's doing what he can. It'll be okay."

He fell silent for a moment. It was Sam who broke the icy quiet that befell them, speaking softly and earnestly. "You saw my email, Malcolm. I meant what I said. I do love you, and I left Shaun. I broke things off with him. I'm sorry I hadn't done it sooner. I didn't… I didn't know what to do." She paused for a moment. "Malcolm, please say something. I need to know you're feeling."

He breathed out a deep sigh. "You should know how I'm feeling. I thought I made it perfectly clear the morning I left your flat. I want this, Sam. I want _you._ No more denying it now. It's always been _you."_

There was a brief pause before she began speaking again, responding to him. "Malcolm, I need to tell you something. And it's been true all these years. I never… _realized_ how much I loved you until you were in prison. Until I was faced with _why_ I was feeling so terrible over everything. Until it… really hit me. You know that, don't you? That I love you?"

He smiled. It was such a little thing, bright and fading fast, but it was real and honest and he felt so very, very in love in that moment. "I was worried for a while," he confessed quietly, brogue softer and thicker than usual. "But I know. I know you love me, too." He almost fell silent, but he made himself continue. "I fucking love you, too. I'd ask you to come over, if you'd like to, but it's so late. Maybe tomorrow, love?"

When they finally said their goodbyes and hung up for the night, it felt _good._ It felt right. They were, he supposed, going to try being together.

Things had to start looking up one day, didn't they? They both had respectable jobs and good paychecks and good things coming in life. They could do this. He wasn't some washed up Director of Communications. No, he wasn't Steve Flemming. He was _making something_ out of his life, and she needed to be by his side. She said as much. And he agreed.

Life was about to get _much_ better. Or so he thought.

Little did he know what was happening across the city to the monumental fuckup named Benjamin Swain. Because that, well — that would haunt him. Not that he would know until it was too late. He'd already turned his telly off, settled into bed for the night. Alone, of course, and wishing Sam was beside him.


	8. Chapter 8

The call came an hour or so later. She was frantic and desperate and grasping at answers. Someone had been _murdered._ He couldn't really blame her. The only discernible thing that came from her lips was a soft, _"I need to see you. Right now. Today."_

He was in the middle of reading over a huge story he was going to publish but, nevertheless, he said back, "Why don't you come meet me? I'm up to my fucking scrotum in articles that need publishing today. I'm sorry, pet. Meet me at my office. I'll see you tonight, too. Maybe we can go out somewhere, just you and me."

She nodded imperceptibly, even though she couldn't see it. "I'll take my lunch a little early. I'll see you soon." They said their goodbyes and hung up, eventually. An uncomfortable silence filled his office, save for the buzzing of his laptop on charge and the beep of his phone alerting him of a text message. He didn't care to read the latter, however. Not right now.

Malcolm tossed the phone aside, covering his face with his hands and trying to relax for a long, tremulous moment. It began to sink in then. _Someone had murdered Ben Swain._

What on fucking Earth were they all going to do? It seemed that no matter how he how hard they all tried, no one could outrun their past. Who knew what Mr. Swain was doing for a living, but it had fuck all to do with government. Malcolm had eviscerated him and ruined him for his career years ago.

One by one, the calls began pouring in. Julius Nicholson was the first to call him, then Jamie MacDonald and Ollie Reeder. Terri Coverley, Fatty, and Angela Heaney only heard his voicemail. The whole fucking Piss Brigade rang him up. He knew _nothing_ and they were all looking for _something._

It was a precarious position for the ex-Master of Spin to be in. He still knew how to spin himself a web, though. A great big fat fucking web of lies. He told everyone that he wasn't allowed to share any information, not that he had any to begin with. They weren't privy to that, though. They didn't need to be.

The higher up on the food chain they thought Malcolm F. Tucker was, the better (and the safer he was).

After he'd finished up some work, there came a knock at the door. Nicholas Davidson popped his head inside, eyes on Malcolm as he spoke. "There's a woman here to see you, a Miss Cassidy. Shall I let her in?"

Despite the shit-storm that was going on at the moment, Malcolm smiled. What a rarity it was. Davidson's brows furrowed in surprise. "Let her in," Malcolm said with a gentle nod. "If you would, please." Another rarity: _please._ Davidson left quietly without another word.

Moments later Sam came wandering in. She shut the door behind her and closed the blinds, rushing over to him and all but launching herself into his arms. "How can you just be fucking casually working when there's a murderer out there somewhere?"

Malcolm's hand rose to cup the back of her head, eyes closing as she held him tightly. "I'm not," he said softly. "Not casually, anyway. But I had things to do. The workday doesn't end for me just because someone piece of shite's dead."

There was a fire in her eyes as she drew back the tiniest bit to see his features. "Malcolm," she chided him. "Don't say that. Have some respect. He's _dead."_

Malcolm deflated at the look she was giving him. He always had, truth be told. She knew _just how_ to get under his skin, or scold him when he was being a complete arsehole. "He's half the reason I landed in prison for a whole eight months, you know. And he fucking took pleasure in it. I can't help it if I'm still a little fucking bitter."

She sat down in his lap, hands placed at his shoulders. "Don't you understand? They're going to immediately add you to the list of suspects." His brows furrowed again. It was a possibility he'd considered already, but to hear her say it shattered something inside of him.

"If it happened last night like everyone's said, thankfully you have an alibi," she said to him. He waited, a questioning expression on his features. "I was home alone," he answered, finally.

She pressed a finger to his lips and began speaking. "You were emailing me. You called me. We spoke. There are these nifty things called _phone records._ And they could check your emails to see the timestamps."

Immediately, Malcolm began shaking his head at that. "Doesn't matter," he told her. "I'm not going to let them know about _us._ I won't let them read those emails. If they _do,_ you become my weakness. A chink in my armor. You'll become a target by the media. All the cunts will rush after you. I'm on top right now with my fucking online column. They'll tear you apart. Everything will be seen by the public. Open investigation and all that jazz."

With a sigh, he continued. "It's all over the telly. Have you been watching the fucking news? Nothing about this entire fucking thing will remain private. He was killed in an _alley._ How fucking undignified. That's what the Detective Constable told me. A fucking _alleyway._ Must have been shanked or something like fucking that. How fucking _American."_

She laughed then, but it wasn't a jovial sound. It something akin to heartbreak. Anger, too. She was upset. That much was fairly obvious. She always _smiled_ when she was _really angry._

She took his face in her petite hands, drawing him to her for a long, slow kiss. It surprised him, but he melted into it. His hand found her thigh to hold her close and he sighed against her lips. "You don't get it, do you?" he murmured to him. "I'm stronger _with_ you. We need to tell the police about this. They're going to ask anyway. They'll probably bring you down the station, when the time finally comes. Whenever that may be. If they don't immediately find whatever fucking psychopath did this. They'll interrogate you. Doesn't that hit a bit too close to home for you?"

Her forehead came to rest against his shoulder for a little while before she dared to speak up again, speculating aloud. "What if it was just a robbery gone wrong? I don't know how he died, but… what if that's all it was? I wonder exactly what happened."

The only other option was far too terrifying. That someone had targeted poor Mr. Swain on purpose. That someone had possibly followed him. Why would someone kill him? Why? And if that was the case, were they planning on killing anyone else? Was Malcolm a possible target as well? What was the purpose of all this?

"Stop thinking too hard about all this," he said to her, breaking the eerie silence that had fallen between them. "It'll be alright, I promise." His hand began to stroke her back, sighing inaudibly as she _finally_ began to relax against him.

Hopefully this mess would all be sorted out soon enough.


	9. Chapter 9

The call came an hour or so later. She was frantic and desperate and grasping at answers. Someone had been _murdered._ He couldn't really blame her. The only discernible thing that came from her lips was a soft, _"I need to see you. Right now. Today."_

He was in the middle of reading over a huge story he was going to publish but, nevertheless, he said back, "Why don't you come meet me? I'm up to my fucking scrotum in articles that need publishing today. I'm sorry, pet. Meet me at my office. I'll see you tonight, too. Maybe we can go out somewhere, just you and me."

She nodded imperceptibly, even though she couldn't see it. "I'll take my lunch a little early. I'll see you soon." They said their goodbyes and hung up, eventually. An uncomfortable silence filled his office, save for the buzzing of his laptop on charge and the beep of his phone alerting him of a text message. He didn't care to read the latter, however. Not right now.

Malcolm tossed the phone aside, covering his face with his hands and trying to relax for a long, tremulous moment. It began to sink in then. _Someone had murdered Ben Swain._

What on fucking Earth were they all going to do? It seemed that no matter how he how hard they all tried, no one could outrun their past. Who knew what Mr. Swain was doing for a living, but it had fuck all to do with government. Malcolm had eviscerated him and ruined him for his career years ago.

One by one, the calls began pouring in. Julius Nicholson was the first to call him, then Jamie MacDonald and Ollie Reeder. Terri Coverley, Fatty, and Angela Heaney only heard his voicemail. The whole fucking Piss Brigade rang him up. He knew _nothing_ and they were all looking for _something._

It was a precarious position for the ex-Master of Spin to be in. He still knew how to spin himself a web, though. A great big fat fucking web of lies. He told everyone that he wasn't allowed to share any information, not that he had any to begin with. They weren't privy to that, though. They didn't need to be.

The higher up on the food chain they thought Malcolm F. Tucker was, the better (and the safer he was).

After he'd finished up some work, there came a knock at the door. Nicholas Davidson popped his head inside, eyes on Malcolm as he spoke. "There's a woman here to see you, a Miss Cassidy. Shall I let her in?"

Despite the shit-storm that was going on at the moment, Malcolm smiled. What a rarity it was. Davidson's brows furrowed in surprise. "Let her in," Malcolm said with a gentle nod. "If you would, please." Another rarity: _please._ Davidson left quietly without another word.

Moments later Sam came wandering in. She shut the door behind her and closed the blinds, rushing over to him and all but launching herself into his arms. "How can you just be fucking casually working when there's a murderer out there somewhere?"

Malcolm's hand rose to cup the back of her head, eyes closing as she held him tightly. "I'm not," he said softly. "Not casually, anyway. But I had things to do. The workday doesn't end for me just because someone piece of shite's dead."

There was a fire in her eyes as she drew back the tiniest bit to see his features. "Malcolm," she chided him. "Don't say that. Have some respect. He's _dead."_

Malcolm deflated at the look she was giving him. He always had, truth be told. She knew _just how_ to get under his skin, or scold him when he was being a complete arsehole. "He's half the reason I landed in prison for a whole eight months, you know. And he fucking took pleasure in it. I can't help it if I'm still a little fucking bitter."

She sat down in his lap, hands placed at his shoulders. "Don't you understand? They're going to immediately add you to the list of suspects." His brows furrowed again. It was a possibility he'd considered already, but to hear her say it shattered something inside of him.

"If it happened last night like everyone's said, thankfully you have an alibi," she said to him. He waited, a questioning expression on his features. "I was home alone," he answered, finally.

She pressed a finger to his lips and began speaking. "You were emailing me. You called me. We spoke. There are these nifty things called _phone records._ And they could check your emails to see the timestamps."

Immediately, Malcolm began shaking his head at that. "Doesn't matter," he told her. "I'm not going to let them know about _us._ I won't let them read those emails. If they _do,_ you become my weakness. A chink in my armor. You'll become a target by the media. All the cunts will rush after you. I'm on top right now with my fucking online column. They'll tear you apart. Everything will be seen by the public. Open investigation and all that jazz."

With a sigh, he continued. "It's all over the telly. Have you been watching the fucking news? Nothing about this entire fucking thing will remain private. He was killed in an _alley._ How fucking undignified. That's what the Detective Constable told me. A fucking _alleyway._ Must have been shanked or something like fucking that. How fucking _American."_

She laughed then, but it wasn't a jovial sound. It something akin to heartbreak. Anger, too. She was upset. That much was fairly obvious. She always _smiled_ when she was _really angry._

She took his face in her petite hands, drawing him to her for a long, slow kiss. It surprised him, but he melted into it. His hand found her thigh to hold her close and he sighed against her lips. "You don't get it, do you?" he murmured to him. "I'm stronger _with_ you. We need to tell the police about this. They're going to ask anyway. They'll probably bring you down the station, when the time finally comes. Whenever that may be. If they don't immediately find whatever fucking psychopath did this. They'll interrogate you. Doesn't that hit a bit too close to home for you?"

Her forehead came to rest against his shoulder for a little while before she dared to speak up again, speculating aloud. "What if it was just a robbery gone wrong? I don't know how he died, but… what if that's all it was? I wonder exactly what happened."

The only other option was far too terrifying. That someone had targeted poor Mr. Swain on purpose. That someone had possibly followed him. Why would someone kill him? Why? And if that was the case, were they planning on killing anyone else? Was Malcolm a possible target as well? What was the purpose of all this?

"Stop thinking too hard about all this," he said to her, breaking the eerie silence that had fallen between them. "It'll be alright, I promise." His hand began to stroke her back, sighing inaudibly as she _finally_ began to relax against him.

Hopefully this mess would all be sorted out soon enough.


End file.
